Saint Baskerville Academy (JohnlockTeenlock)
by WhoLocked93
Summary: Troubled adolescent, Sherlock Holmes, and young, understanding, John Watson met on a train to Saint Baskerville Academy. How will John take to Sherlock? Will he turn away from the troubled teen or help him? What's is this feeling Sherlock has begun to feel for him? Is he dying? Or is he falling for him?
1. Chapter 1: Meeting On The Trin

**Sherlock**

I slam my trunk closed, mumbling angrily to myself.

Stupid school. Stupid parents making me go to the stupid school. I don't understand why I have to go. It's so boring. Ugh. Everyone there will be stupid. I'm fifteen for Christ sake. Why can't I just drop out-

I can hear Mycroft approach the entrance of my room, but I ignore him. I deem his presence below me therefore I do not care to acknowledge his presence.

"Sherlock." Mycroft drawls after a moment of being ignored. I continue to ignore him as he goes on talking with his usual bored demeanour. "Sherlock. Stop being childish. We need to go. You've wasted enough time." He says annoyed.

"Piss off." I spat at him.

"Come off it, Sherlock." He responds, now visibly agitated. "We need to go. You've been kicked out of all your other schools. Saint Baskerville Boarding School is the only school that will take you at the last minute. We need to go now." He says with finality.

"I'll be down in a bloody minute!" I shout at him, trying to do anything to get him to leave. Thank god it works.

"Fine. Five minutes, Sherlock. Or I'll come up here and drag you out."

I scoff at that threat and think to myself, "Suuuurrrrreeeeeee. I'd like to see you try."

I listen closely as he leaves my room, walks down the hall, and descends the stairs. I run quietly over to my door and peek out making sure I am alone. Upon seeing that no one else is upstairs, I close my door softly.

I turn back facing my large room. Most of the walls are filled with bookshelves crammed tight with books of varying literature. Mostly they are textbooks; chemistry, psychology, biology, maths, etc... I make my way to one particular book on the top shelf closest to my huge bed. I pull out Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea by Jules Verne. It was my favourite book as a child, I still enjoy reading it sometimes and have bought an extra copy for a specific and very different purpose.

The book I pull out is my decoy copy. I have fastened the pages down and cut out the insides, making a discreet hole in the centre of the book. I open up the book and peer at the contents inside. I can feel my pupils dilate and my breath quicken.

Inside is a small bag of white powder, needles, a lighter, and a burnt spoon. I pull out the bag of heroine, looking at it longingly. I want a taste, just one hit before I have to make the long, boring journey to my new boarding school. But I know I can't, Mycroft would notice.

I sigh quietly and place the bag back into the book and close it, placing it gently into my rucksack. I grab my trunk and sling my rucksack over my shoulder, leaving my room. I clatter down the stairs and outside to the black car waiting for me. The driver puts my trunk in the boot as I get in. Mycroft awaits for me on the inside.

"Look at me." He says, once we take off down the street. I roll my eyes and oblige. He grasps my face around my cheeks and turns my head side to side, peering into my eyes.

"I am not high, Mycroft." I say agitatedly pulling my face out of his grasp.

"Just checking." He responds and begins to search through my rucksack. He gets all the way to the bottom where the book hiding my drugs are. I remain nonchalant as he picks it up, even though my heart is racing and begin to perspire slightly. He looks at it momentarily, before placing it back inside and putting all the contents he pulled out back inside. I sigh in relief.

We drive in complete silence for the hour it takes to reach King's Cross Station. Upon reaching it, Mycroft breaks the silence much to my annoyance.

"Here is your timetable, brother. I had it worked in your favour so that you would get more interesting classes that are better suited for you rather than be bothered by the rudimentary ones." He says, handing it to me.

"I'd rather not have to go to the stupid school at all." I retort, stuffing it in my pocket without looking at it. Mycroft sighs in response. He looks defeated.

"Need that it may be you must complete secondary school if you want to go to uni." He says.

"Don't you think I know that already, Mycroft." I respond, giving him a cruel look.

"Very well." He says simply with a dismissive flick of his hand. I roll my eyes and get out of the car.

I grab my trunk from the boot and make my way through the crowded King's Cross Station. I find the correct platform and board the train. I find an empty seat and sling my rucksack to the other side. I lift my trunk, trying to put it in the storage compartment overhead, but the damn thing is to awkward and heavy. It begins to fall backward, when I feel another set of hands support the toppling trunk.

I look to my side to say a boy around the same age as I. He has light blonde hair and kind blue eyes. I turn back to the task at hand and together we lift the trunk into the compartment.

"Ta." I say to the boy.

"No problem. Mind if I join you?"

I pause for a moment, mulling this over. I was looking forward to being left alone. I look at the boy once over before coming to a decision.

"The name's Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." I say reaching my hand out towards him.

"John Watson." He says, taking my hand within his and smiling. I feel an electric jolt pulse through our touch. It surprises me and I quickly pull away, leaving John's hand hanging awkwardly in the air between us.

"Umm... Do you want me to help lift up your trunk?" I say quickly, trying to make the awkwardness of my sudden withdraw go away.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure. Ta." He says.

We heave his trunk in the compartment next to mine and sit across from each other in silence. I shuffle through my rucksack for my decoy book and an advanced Chemistry textbook. I place the decoy book on my lap for later.

"Sooo. Sherlock. That's an odd name." Oh dear lord he's a talker.

"Yes. My parents thought it was an oh so clever of a name." I say, sarcastically as I flip through the Chemistry book.

"It's nice. I like it. Unique." He says, sincerely.

I look up at him surprised, trying to deduce if he was being serious. To my even greater surprise, he was. I turn back to my book when John begins to stare out the window, a look of concentration plastered on his face. I begin reading about the different affects acid has on different objects when I am startled by John.

"Oh!" He says loudly, causing me to jump out of my seat.

"Dear god. What!" I ask, glaring at him. "I about fell out of my chair!"

"Ops... Sorry." He says, laughing at this before continuing. "When you told me your name it sounded familiar, really familiar. So I thought about where I might have heard it before. Then I remembered this."

He pulls out his timetable and points to my name. I stare at it momentarily with a disbelieving look on my face..

"You're my new roommate." He says, happily.

I pull out my timetable I neglected to look at earlier and sure enough, John Watson's name is printed in bold letter next to the letter's 'Roommate'. Damn, Mycroft never told me I had to share a room with anyone... I'll have to get him for this later. For now, I might as well make the best of this or scare him off. Probably the latter of the two.

"Do you mind the violin?" I ask point blank.

"Um, what? What's that have to do with anything?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. I sometimes don't talk for days on end. Does any of this bother you?"

"Oh... Uh... No. No, it doesn't."

"Good. Since we are going to be rooming together we ought to know the worst about each other." I say, returning to my book.

"Don't you want to know the worst about me?" He asks, after a moment of silence.

"Your fourteen, one year younger than I. You come from a poor family that cannot afford to send you to this type of school, so scholarship. Football scholarship to be exact. You want to be an army doctor. You have a brother named Harry, his name is labeled on the trunk above us with a woman's named Clara. Girlfriend probably. Your father is an alcoholic; I can smell it on you and your mother has resigned to try to help him. You all just hide in your rooms when he's home drunk. None of you wanting to deal with him. Am I wrong?" I finish and prepare myself to be punched in the face.

"That was... amazing." He says, wide eyed, taking me by completely surprise once again.

"You think... that's amazing?"

"Yeah. It's bloody brilliant! Why do you seem surprised? What do people normally say?"

"Piss off." I say, making John laugh. I laugh too. It feels quite nice to laugh after spending all that dreadful time at home.

"Well. I think it's brilliant. How did you figure all that out anyways?"

"I deduced it." I say simply as if that answers all his questions.

"Sorry. What? Deduced it?" Clearly it did not answer all his questions.

"Your facial complexion is slightly younger than mine. Not drastically younger, just slightly. Making you about a year younger than I. The clothes you wear are worn out like you wear them quite often, probably because you don't have many others to wear. You've got a hand me down down trunk from your older brother, therefore poor. You have a football in your bag, you wouldn't bring one if you didn't need to practise constantly. So, football scholarship. I can see the pamphlet for the army sticking out of your rucksack and all your classes correlate highly with going into the field of medicine. Army doctor. Like I stated earlier, 'Harry loves Clara' is labeled on the front of the trunk and the trunk itself is quite old. So, older brother. You smell of alcohol, though not your breathe, just your clothes. So, your dad is an alcoholic. How do I know your dad's the alcoholic, not your mum? Educated guess." I finish, almost out of breath. John's mouth hangs open as he just stares at me. I wait for him to gain his composure.

"That was bloody amazing!" He finally says. " Absolutely amazing!"

"Did I get anything wrong?" I ask, curious.

"Harry. It's short for Harriett." He says. Damn!

"Ahh, so close. Their is always something I miss. So Harriett's your older sister then?

"Yup. Clara is her on again off again girlfriend."

"Ahh." I say again

We remain in silence after that until I notice John beginning to fall asleep. I don't know why I'm doing this, but I turn around and grab my coat, folding it into a makeshift pillow. I lean over the table to place it next to his head, when his eyes flutter open. He cringes hard against the seat, surprised by my closeness. I move back, muttering apologise. I didn't mean to frighten him.

"I didn't mean to scare you. You were falling asleep and I thought you'd like something to rest your head on." I say, gesturing awkwardly to my makeshift pillow coat.

"No. No, it's alright. I just get jumpy sometimes." He says, sheepishly.

"Do you... Would you like to rest your head on my coat?" I say, awkwardly hoping that I am not blushing like an idiot. I don't even know why I would be, but I sure hope I'm not.

"Yeah. That would be nice." He says giving me a reassuring smile as he takes my coat and props it against the window to rest his head. "Ta." He says as his eyes flutter close again.

I watch him as he begins to fall asleep again, noting how rigid he looks. His arms are folded tightly around each other in front of his stomach and his face seems tight and strained. He couldn't still be frightened by the scare I caused him... Could he?... After a moment I decide to brush off the odd reaction and turn to my Chemistry book, flipping the pages quietly, as to not disturb John. Geez, first the coat and now trying to be quiet. When did I start caring about someone I hardly know?

I sigh and glance at the decoy book on my lap. I look up and watch John, waiting for his breathing to become deep before I ease myself quietly out of my seat and make my way to the loo. Four more hours till we reach Saint Baskerville Boarding School I think with detest. He finally falls asleep and I leave for the loo. Once reaching it, I close the door and open my decoy book and pull out all the necessary supplies. Within 30 seconds, the drug is in the syringe. My eyes dilate and my breathing hitches up a notch at the prospect of my next fix in just a few moments.

I insert the needle and let the drug spread through my veins like fire. I rejoice in the sensation as I feel my mind heighten. Oh, what a glorious feeling...

I bend my head down to withdraw the needle, when everything begins to tilt and turn. Oh, shit. Something's wrong. Something has gone horrible wrong. I try to grasp at the door, but I can't focus on it as I begin to slip downward. I feel my eyes become foggy, tunnel vision beginning to take affect. Shit. I used too much. How the hell did I use too much.

"John." I say out of desperation. But I said it too quietly, he wouldn't have heard me. My mind begins to go blank and everything becomes dark. Eventually darkness enfolds me and I pass out.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2: The Rescue

**John**

I wake up to the sound of the train wheels clattering against rails; it's soothing. I lift my head that rested comfortably against Sherlock's coat and rub the sleep from my eyes. With a yawn, I peer at my watch surprised that I've only been out for thirty minutes.

I look over to Sherlock's seat, he's not there. I glance around me, wondering if he's off chatting it up with someone, but I don't see him. I shrug off the weird feeling this gives me and stand just as my stomach decides to demonstrate a whale mating song. I sigh and pull out my wallet from my back left pocket. I've got a fiver; just enough for some crisps and tea. Perhaps Sherlock will be there. He is awfully skinny and pale, with his unruly black curls and beautiful aquamarine eyes. Wait. What. Why did I just think Sherlock's eyes are beautiful? There just eyes, John. Dear god pull yourself together.

I shake my head and make my way to the food trolley, passing the only and currently occupied loo on the train. I reach an elderly woman with kind green eyes tending to the trolley. I get myself crisps and tea, handing the lady a fiver, and wait patiently for my change.

I glance around the room; realising Sherlock is not here either. Something about this concerns me. The train isn't very big and I walked through the entire thing just to get here, so where the hell could he be...

The trolley lady snaps me from my thoughts to hand me my change. I nod my thanks and stuff the change in my pocket.

I make my way to pass the loo again, but I stop. I look at the little green 'occupied' notice on the door. I weird feeling crawls down my spine. I don't know what it is, I guess you would call it intuition. But I have this weird feeling that Sherlock is inside.

I don't want to disturb him, but the weird feeling keeps nagging me that he's not okay.

I raise my hand hesitantly to knock on the door, but I stop. I feel conflicted. Maybe he's feeling a bit ill is all. That happens sometimes. I should just let him be for a bit. If he doesn't come out in another five minutes, I'll check on him. With that final thought I start to turn away until I hear a noise that stops me in my tracks.

Someone is making painful moans on the other side of the door. For a split second, I wonder if something... err uhh... sexual is happening in there, but I quickly toss that thought aside when I hear it again. Someone is in pain and they sound weak. Definitely not sexual.

Before I realise what I'm doing, I drop my tea and crisps and ram the door hard with my shoulder easily breaking it open after one solid hit. I feel pain shoot across my shoulder, but I ignore it. What I see before me makes my heart drop and my stomach turn.

Sherlock is lying on the ground, between states of consciousness. He is so pale and a sheen of sweat coats his face. I manoeuvre my way around Sherlock and crouch down next to him, placing my hands gently on his face. As I get closer to him, I notice his cupid bow lip are slightly blue. I feel panic rising in my chest.

"Sherlock." I say, shaking him gently. "Sherlock. Look at me. What happened?"

He opens his eyes slightly, his pupils are tiny. What the hell happened?

I scoot closer to him and sit down cross legged pulling him onto my lap. He starts to close his eyes again.

"Sherlock. Don't close your eyes. Keep your eyes fixed on me." I say, desperately.

He shutters slightly and I hear a small clattering noise, followed by the sound of glass rolling away. I look towards the noise and see a used syringe. Oh, fuck.

"Sherlock! Look at me!" I say, shaking him harder. "What was in the syringe, Sherlock?! What was in it?!"

He opens his eyes again, they're glassed over and vacant.

"Drugsss..." He says, weakly as his eyes threaten to slip closed again. Oh my god. He overdosed, he fucking overdosed. Shit. Shit. Shit! I feel my heart beat speed up and I feel nauseas.

"No! No, Sherlock! Keep your eyes open." I say desperately as I see a tear splash onto his face. I didn't realise that I'd been crying. I agitatedly wipe away the other tears and start to subconsciously stroke his hair away from his sweaty face.

Sherlock shudders again and his breathing becomes suddenly extremely shallow. Oh god I'm losing him! Overwhelming panic consumes me. I don't know what to do! I don't know what to do!

"Come on, Sherlock! Talk to me! What drug? What drug did you take?!"

He makes mumbling noises, but I can't distinguish it this time. His eyes close once again and I shake him trying to get him to reopen them, but he won't. He stopped responding and I feel him go limp. I check his pulse afraid that I won't find one. After a moment, a feel a faint pulse and breathe a sigh of relief. I know I don't have much time, I need to get him help.

"HELP! HELP! SOMEONE COLLAPSED! THEY NEED HELP! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP US!

Within seconds someone rushes in, before they enter I grab the drug paraphernalia and stuff it into my pocket. I don't know why I did that. I shouldn't be protecting him, but I feel like I must. So I stuff it into pocket.

A young girl hesitantly peaks in. She has long brown hair pulled back into a high pony tail with kind, brown eyes. She has an oversized sweater on with the face of a cat on it. She looks at me, then to Sherlock. Her eyes widen in as she takes him in.

"Sherlock? What happened to him?" She asks, looking at me with concern.

"I... uhh... don't know. I just found him here..." I trial off not meeting her eyes. I don't know her and I don't want to broadcast to the world that he overdosed. He can get kicked out of school for that. She pauses for a moment before speaking again.

"Did he... did he overdose?" She asks quietly. I look at her surprised before nodding slightly.

"We need to get him help. He's not responding. He still has a pulse, but it's faint." I say, pleadingly. I don't know how much longer he'll last and that thought terrifies me.

"Okay. I'll be right back." She says quickly as she hops up and bolts from the loo.

She comes back less than thirty seconds later with her purse. I look at her stupidly.

"What are you doing?! We need to get him help?!" I say as I try to pick Sherlock up and failing miserably. He's heavier than he looks.

"Stop moving!" She says, sharply. "He's overdosed on heroine. I have the counter drug in my purse. I just need to find it..." She continues, trailing off. How in the bloody hell did she know what he overdosed on? Who the hell is she?

"Found it!" She exclaims pulling out a cylinder shaped object. She opens it up and a syringe falls into her hand. She messes with the dose before grabbing his wrist and plunging the needle into his vein, injecting the unknown drug into his system..

We sit tensely for a couple of minutes, relaxing slightly when Sherlock's breathing becomes slightly more regular and the blue tinge around his lips starts to recede.

I lean heavily against the wall and begin to absently stroke Sherlock's hair. The girl notices, but doesn't say anything.

"What did you give him?" I ask, exhausted.

"Naloxone." She says, showing me the label. "It's a counter drug for heroin overdoses."

"How... Where... Why..." I stutter, unable to finish any of the million questions I have for her. She smiles at me sheepishly.

"My father is a doctor, he deals with a lot of heroin overdoses and this is the drug he uses to counter it. He explained to me how it is used and how to administer it when I asked. Sherlock and I use to go to the same boarding school for the last two years, before he was kicked out for drug use. He overdosed five times in the two years I've known him." She says, looking at him sadly but fondly before continuing. "After the second time, I asked my dad about the drug. He was more than happy to talk to me about his job and I never had to reveal why I wanted to know. Before heading back to school, I swiped a handful of it. He had so many, he didn't even notice some had gone missing. My parents pulled me out of my previous school, just before Sherlock was kicked out. By chance were sent to the same school again and I never got around to taking the drug out of my purse." She finishes with a shrug.

"Thank you. Thank you so much." I say sincerely before adding with a laugh. "And I don't even know your name."

"Molly Hooper." She says extending her hand, chuckling as well.

"John Watson." I respond, grasping her hand within mine and giving it a slight shake.

"Have you known him long?" She asks, gesturing to Sherlock.

"No. No, I haven't. Just met him today on the train. He's my new roommate."

"Oh... Dear... What a greeting."

"You're telling me." I say, apathetically.

We remain in silence for a couple minutes. Sherlock starts to get some of his colour back and the sweat that once coated his face has dried. His lips are only a hint of blue now and he stopped shaking. Dear god what am I getting myself into. Maybe I should request a roommate change...

"He's not a bad guy." Molly says suddenly, interrupting my train of thought. "He's different. That's for sure. But he's not bad. He has his troubles, but he truly is brilliant." She finishes sincerely. Her eyes shining with hope and understanding. It's like she knew what I was thinking. I simply nod to her.

I'm slightly taken aback by her words. I am unable to dwell upon what she's just said due to Sherlock beginning to stir in my grasp that I forgot I had on him.

"Hey." I say, softly. Breathing a small sigh of relief when he opens his eyes and notice his pupils are back to a normal size.

"What happened?" He asks, weakly.

"You overdosed." Molly says softly, causing Sherlock to switch his attention from me to her. He looks surprised to see her.

"Hey, Molly. Saved me yet again, haven't you?" He asks, kindly to her. The sincerity in his tone surprises me.

"Yeah." She says, sheepishly as tears form in her eyes. "You've got to stop this, Sherlock. You're going to kill yourself. You're too brilliant to die young."

At this, Sherlock pushes himself abruptly off of my lap and attempts to stand. He's still weak and he stumbles, almost hitting his head. Molly and I catch him before he does.

"I'm fine.' He says, agitatedly. Giving us a cruel glare. What a cock! We just saved his life!

We slowly let go of him and he leans heavily against the wall, his eyes pinched closed. He stays there for a couple of minutes, Molly and I watching him carefully. He opens his eyes eventually, only to slam them close again and clutch his stomach. He spins around quickly and begins to vomit horribly. I stand back looking upon him with pity, as Molly crouches next to him brushing his hair away from his face. He starts to dry heave and eventually stops completely, slumping against the wall pushing Molly's hand away. Pain flashes across her small face.

"That bloody Naloxone always makes me sick." He says, weakly.

"It's better than dying." I retort. He glares at me before pushing himself up and walking past me, elbowing me in my shoulder. Excruciating pain shoots through my arm. I clutch it, doubling over in pain. Molly comes to my side, as Sherlock continues to walk away.

"What happened? He didn't hit you that hard, did he?" She asks, concerned.

"No. I rammed the door open, trying to get to Sherlock. I must have dislocated my shoulder." I say, through gritted teeth. The pain makes me feel sick to my stomach.

"Oh god... John. I'm sorry... I... I don't know how to relocate a shoulder..." She says, sadly. Placing a gentle hand on mine. I look up at her, giving her a weak smile.

"It's alright... I just... Fuck... I just need to keep it still..."

She nods sadly and holds open the door for me to walk through. I walk carefully, trying not to jostle my arm, but it's rather difficult on a bloody moving train.

It's not the first time my shoulder has been dislocated. Sherlock was right, my father's an alcoholic, but what he didn't deduce was that he's abusive when he's drunk. He's slammed me around a couple of times and a couple of times is putting it lightly. It's more like every time he was drunk, unless I hid in my room like a coward.

That's why I was so grateful when I received the letter stating that I was granted a football scholarship to Baskerville Academy. I can finally escape him after all these years of being his personal punching bag. The only thing I regret is leaving my sister and my mum. With me away, he will undoubtedly turn his full attention to them.

I received my scholarship at the last moment. Just enough time to pack and leave. I wasn't able to escape my father however. He gave me a final and brutal beating as a parting gift. Fucking cock.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and take my seat. Sherlock sits across from me with his face pressed flat against the table. He looks horrible... Good. He deserves it. Molly sits beside me and together we arrive to Baskerville in complete silence. This is going to be a long year...

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3: Secret's Revealed

**Sherlock**

"Ta for helping me with my trunk, Molly." John says as we enter our room on the 2nd floor, room 21B of Baskerville Academy.

"No problem." She responds slightly out of breath for helping to carry John and her own trunk.

I drop my trunk on the floor next to the bed closest to the window and fling myself on the bed, marking it as my own. John takes the bed closest to the loo. I steeple my hands in front of my lips and glance around the room.

The room is decent sized, but dwarfed by the numerous pieces of furniture. John and I have an equal share of the room; a bed each, end table, desk, chair, and a closet. I don't care for the furniture however. I am looking for a place to hide my recreational habit. Since John knows, much to my despise, I need to be creative in where I hide it... _There. _The perfect spot. On the floor I see a loose board, it has been lifted up and down multiple times by the marks around the corners. No doubt the previous occupants of this room hid stuff in there. It shall be perfect for my little box...

"Well. I am going to go put my stuff in my room and meet my new roommate if she's here." Molly says, pulling me abruptly from my train of thought.

She makes her way to the door before turning to look at John.

"You really ought to go to the hospital wing and get your shoulder fixed." She says. "I can walk you there, if you'd like. I believe it's in the corridor near the girl's dormitory."

"Umm... I'll do it in a little bit... I've got stuff I need to do." He mumbles looking everywhere, but at Molly. She looks a bit confused by this as it is very obvious that John is in immense pain, but she doesn't push him and lets it go.

"Oh, okay... I'll see you guys later, then...Bye"

"Bye, Molly." We both say simultaneously as she departs, closing the door behind her.

John sits wearily on his bed, holding his arm stiffly across his stomach. I look at him and begin to feel a tinge of sympathy for him. Neither John nor Molly told me that John had hurt himself trying to get to me. To rescue me. I deduced it when I woke up on the train after passing out from the bloody naloxone. I pinch my eyes closed, trying to push away these emotions. They flutter back open shortly when my usual mask reappears, pushing the more sensitive, weaker human side of me down.

As I open my eyes, I see John testing his shoulder. He moves it just up a bit before he grimaces in agony and keeps it fixed against his side. I roll my eyes whilst I get off my bed and walk over to him.

"Would you like to go to the hospital wing, John?" I ask, dully.

"No." He says, crudely. "I can relocate it myself."

I gawk at him surprised, before my eyebrow shoots up in skepticism. His shoulder has been dislocated for almost ten hours now. The process of doing it by himself after that massive amount of time will be extremely painful and difficult. Their is no way he can relocate it by himself, he needs someone to help him. Well since he's being so stubborn about it...

"Take off your shirt." I demand.

"What?!" He asks, startled. His voice going an octave higher. It's quite amusing and I can't help but smile a bit. However I quickly rearrange my features to cool, indifference before John sees.

"Relocating your shoulder by yourself is extremely painful and difficult after the large amount of time it has stayed dislocated. Since you don't want to go to the hospital wing, at least let me relocate it for you."

A variety of emotions cross his face in quick succession. Surprise, skepticism, grateful, sadness, resign, before settling on defeat.

"No, Sherlock. Thank you though, but I can manage." He says, softly.

"Please. Let me help you. I caused this." I say as I gesture to his shoulder. "You wouldn't have dislocated if you weren't trying to get to me."

"I said no!' He shouts suddenly, taking me by such surprise that I literally take a step back.

He bows his head, clenching his eyes shut, and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted. I know you're just trying to help." He says, looking up at me.

His eyes are pulled down wistfully, like he's trying to make me understand something, but I can't figure out what. I can deduce anyone's entire life in a matter of seconds. I was able to deduce his life in a matter of seconds. From his financial status, to his football scholarship, to having an older sister, to his alcoholic fath-

My train of thought stops abruptly. Emotions begin to clutter my mind once again as I take in this new found information; I don't understand them. I shut myself off from all emotions that I feel for others. I have been a master at this for as long as I can remember. But as I look at John and I mean really look at him the indications have always been there. I just didn't see it or I choose not to see it, but why would I do that. Why would I care for this kid I just met. Their is no logical explanation, but I can't push down this feeling of... of protectiveness I feel. His father. His alcoholic father. He abused him. Brutally.

I feel anguish welling inside me as I look at John. The boy with the kind eyes and the mischievous smile... The boy who cringed in fear when he opened his eyes and found me precariously close on the train. The boy who broke open a door and dislocated his shoulder to save me; a person he hadn't even known for an hour. How could anyone hurt him?

I sit delicately on his bed, making sure not to jostle him. I want to say something, but as I open my mouth nothing comes out. I'm at a loss of words. Never have I not been able to think of something to say. So I mumble out the only thing I can think of saying.

"I'm sorry." I say, trying to hide the anguish and feeling of protectiveness from him.

John looks up at me surprised by my sudden apology. I look at him vehemently, trying to tell him that I _know_ without saying it. Realisation flashes across his face before he drops his eyes from mine and to the floor. He slumps doleful and broken.

"Now you know why I won't go to the hospital wing." He says, dejectedly. "The nurse will ask me to take off my shirt and she will... she will _see_." He begins to break. Other than his family, no one outside has known of him being the focus of his father's brutality.

Before I know what I'm doing, I place my hand on his good shoulder. "Then let me help you." I say with understanding seriousness.

He looks at me pained, blinking slowly like he's trying to hold back his tears. His jaw clenches and unclenches, before he nods minutely.

He stands slowly and begins a feeble attempt at taking his shirt off, but it is proving rather difficult with his shoulder.

"John. Are you partial to your shirt?" I ask.

"No. Why?" I don't answer as I grab the scissors sticking out of John's bag and begin to cut his shirt. He panics a moment before realising what I'm doing. "Ah. Right. Hope no one walks in. People would talk."

I ignore him, as I cut through the entire shirt. I turn and put the scissors back into John's bag. When I turn back around, John's shirt flutters open and all my breathe leaves me and I stand there gobsmacked by the sight before me.

John's muscular torso is littered with bruises. Their are so many that he hardly has any natural skin colour left. I approach him slowly and grab a hand full of his torn shirt and begin to circle around him to help get him out. As I pull the shirt away, my heart plummets to the floor. It's not just the front of his torso, it's his entire back, too. I bet if he were to take his jeans off, more bruises would be there, too.

I circle slowly back around to John's front. I notice that the bruises vary drastically in colour. Some are yellow with bits of brown, those are considerably old, but others are mean with black, purple, and red all muddled up together, creating very fresh bruises. Those ones litter a majority of his body, they can't be more than a day or two old...

As I reach John's front and toss his shirt to the side, I realise for the first time that his body is shaking. I look to his face, which is staring at the ground, as tears roll off his cheeks and onto the floor.

"John?" I ask, tentatively. "Are you alright?"

"Umm... It's just I've never... no one has seen..." He trails off, wiping his cheek. His eyes widen suddenly and he rounds on me. "You can't tell anyone, okay?!" He pleads, desperately. "If... if the headmaster got hold of this... my father... he would be cross. Very cross..."

"John." I say stopping him from his obsessive, fearful babble. "I would _never_ tell anyone. Ever. Your secrets safe with me." I say placing one hand on his good shoulder and the other on his cheek. He looks up at me devastated, but his eyes shine through with gratitude and appreciation.

We stand like that a bit longer, before both of us realise the awkwardness of the position we are in. We are standing a couple inches away from each other, whilst I rest one hand on John's shoulder and the other tenderly on his cheek. I drop my hands quickly as we both take a step back, mumbling lame excuses.

I fiddle with one of my curls as John looks at the black and white wallpaper like it's something interesting. After I brief moment of awkward, tension filled air, we both look at each other and smile. The tension begins to evaporate and we start to ease up a bit.

"Well, people will definitely talk." John mumbles under his breathe causing me to snort out a huff of laughter. We collapse into a fit of giggles, before regaining our compousure.

"I suppose we should get your shoulder fixed."

"Yeah, suppose you're right." He says, resigned.

He walks over and lies down on the farthest part of his bed, his bad shoulder facing towards me. His mouth is set into a straight line and his eyes are clenched shut. I sit next to him and kick off my shoes. I stretch my legs on the bed, placing one foot just underneath John's armpit as I grab his hand and intertwine our fingers. I feel a tingling sensation jolt through our conjoined touch, but I push it away. I place my other hand on his forearm, making sure my grip is secure.

"Ready?" I ask. John gives a tight nod and takes a fistful of the blanket and sticks it in his mouth. "On the count of three."

"One." My grip tightens.

"Two." My leg flexes in preparation.

"Three." I pull, stretching the shoulder muscles as John makes muffles screams into the blanket. His shoulder makes gruesome popping noise, before we hear a final and distinct pop and John relaxes.

He pulls the blanket out of his mouth, breathing heavily.

"Thank you." He says, sincerely.

"Anytime." I respond with equal sincerity.

I remove my leg from under John's armpit and bend it towards me, but our hands remain intertwined without our knowledge. It's not until I hear John's soft snores, that I realise I hadn't let go of him. I look down at our conjoined hands with disbelief and amazement. John's grip is firm on mine even in his sleeping state. I feel my heart swell and lift, my breathing becoming quicker, as a new array of emotions cloud my mind. It repels me.

_What is this? What the fuck is this? What is going on with me? What the fuck, Sherlock. Get a grip._

I let go of John's hand and pry his fingers off of me. I push my feet into my shoes once more and stand up, straightening my spine. I grab my scarf and coat and make my way to the door. I don't want to be here right now. Not around him. Not whilst all these confusing emotions clutter my mind, clouding my judgment.

I step out of the door and close it softly, pushing everything I just felt away. I will _not_ let it control me. Emotions and sentiment are a fatal flaw most humans have, but not me. I'm not most humans. I'm Sherlock Bloody Holmes and I do not subject myself to feelings of emotions and sentiment. I will rid myself of this, because caring is not an advantage.

To Be Continued...


	4. Chapter 4: Nightmares of Flashbacks

**John**

_No. No. No. No. NOOO! Not now! Please! Leave!Don't do this! Please, dad! Stop! PLEASE! STOP!_

_My father, Michael, looms closer, as my mind scrambles with unsaid pleas for my father not to do this again. His eyes are bloodshot and angry. In his hand, he holds my acceptance and scholarship letter to Saint Baskerville Academy._

_His face is now inches from mine. Fear radiates through me, I know what is about to come. A slight tremor shakes my entire body, my heart beating so erratic it makes me feel sick. But I stand my ground. I won't go down without a fight._

_He exhales his putrid alcoholic breathe in my face, making me want to retch. I look up into his cruel eyes with defiance and courage, even though my body screams at me to run, I won't. It'll only make this game funner for him._

_"Explain this, you fucking little shit." He slurs, angrily, slamming the paper against my chest causing me to stumble back and lose my breath._

_I regain myself, feeling a huge amount of adrenaline and courage overwhelm me. I slap his hand away, causing the paper to fly away. He gawks at me surprised, before his eyes turn to angry slits and his hand's begin to shake furiously._

_"How. Dare. You." He says, his words dripping with building rage._

_"Yes. I fucking dared." I say, threateningly soft as I bring my fist up and punch him square in the face._

_Immediately after the punch, I realised what I had just done and regret it. My father being the massive, burly man that he is barely moved. But I can see a small trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. The only proof that I actually hit him._

_All of a sudden he rushes forward, his feet thundering against the wood floors. I don't have time to react as I'm bulldozed by him, taking my breathe with it. He rams me into the wall, my head slamming against it with an audible crack. I feel woozy as he steps back and I crumple into a heap on the floor. I will myself to regain my composure as disorientation clouds my head. Everything is painfully blurry and my ears ring loudly. My head throbs and I can feel blood slowly trickle down my neck. Definitely a concussion._

_I take a painful breathe in and cringe in pain. My ribs. Broken. A couple of them._

_I look up dizzily, my head lolling from side to side as I try to stare at my father._

_He pick me up cruelly, forcing me to stand. I trip and stumble, he brings his hand up and back hands me across the face. "STAND!" He shouts._

_I comply as best as I can, but I'm swaying about without me realising. The room around me tilts and turns._

_"You useless piece of shit!" He growls with clenched teeth._

_He grasps me painfully by the shoulders and knees me in the stomach. I moan painfully in response and grasp my stomach. I feel bile make it's way into my mouth and before I can stop it, I retch._

_My father stands back grinning sadistically. "You are a weak little pussy, John. I detest calling you my son. You are no son of mine." He slurs, bringing up a fist and slamming it into my face. My head jolts to the side as my jaw rocks from the force. I pull my head back up feeling blood fill my mouth. I feel something else and spit it out. A tooth. My tongue probes around my mouth and sure enough I feel a gap where my tooth once went._

_I look up to see my father smiling gleefully, clearly proud of his work. I pray to whatever god is listening for this to end soon, but I know with a sinking heart that no god will ever hear my prayers. They never have before. This is just getting started._

_"It's your fault, Johnny. It's all your fault." He says, grabbing a handful of my bloody shirt in his fist. "My wife's dead because of you. Your mum. You caused her death. It's all. Your. Fault." He finishes letting go of my shirt and giving me a swift kick to the side. Another rib broken._

_"Say it! Say it's your fault!" He bellows at me._

_I look away defying him as tears streak steadily down my face. I won't say it. It wasn't my fault. I didn't do anything. I was just eight years old and mum was taking me to a birthday party for one on my school mates. I was whining at her for something now stupid and forgotten and she was getting cross with me. She turned around to tell me to stop or she'd turn the car around and I won't be able to go to the party. I stopped, but mum had taken her eyes off of the road for too long and swerved into the wrong lane. A frantically honking horn drew her eyes back, but it was too late. We came head on with another car. Everything jerked. Tires scretched, metal screamed, and broken glass flew everywhere. I looked up at my mum's bloody face, fear and love still shining in her eyes. She told me it was okay. That she's here and we'll be okay. She told me that she loves me very much and Harriet and dad too. She loved us all so very, very much. She reached a mangled arm to me and took hold of my hand. I heard people screaming from the outside and turn to see them crowding the car. I look back at my mum to see her slumped against the seat, hand still grasping mine. In my eight year old mind, I thought she was asleep..._

_"JOHN!" My father bellows pulling me from the horrible memory. "Say it! Say it was your fault!"_

_I can feel myself break. My heart ripping in two, but I will not give into him. "Mum would be disgusted to see you now! She'd leave you, taking me with her! You chased Harry away and now we never see her! Why?! Because she came out as gay! So you beat her to a pulp and she left! Mum would HATE YOU NOW!" I bellow back my strength returning some._

_I stand up weakly and stumble over to him as he stands in shock by my outburst. I push him and spit in his face. He comes to and reacts, kneeing me in my crotch. I go down hard, spots of light flashing in front of my eyes as I feel sick to my stomach again._

_"You think your so fucking brave, you little shit. I'll fucking show you." He growls as he bends down next to me. I know what's going to happen next..._

_His hands grasp onto my belt yanking at it crudely trying to get it off. I lay limply on the ground as my father eventually gets it off. He works my jeans and pants off, tossing them across the room. I lay on the ground feeling dirty and broken. I clench my eyes shut as I hear my father take off his own clothes. I'm a rag doll as he moves me into position. I let out a painful whimper as he thrusts himself inside of me. He keeps doing it over and over again, until I hear a rattle of my belt being moved. My eyes rip open, as my heart stops. This is new. I barely have enough time to react as I feel the belt whip across my back. I howl in pain as my father continues to rape me. I plea weakly for him to stop. This just makes him more angry and rough. Pain rips through me. I feel like I'm going to be torn into two. I hear myself screaming. I'm screaming so loud. It fills the air... Someone's calling my name. Who's calling my name?..._  
_**(AN: END OF THE ABUSE/RAPE FLASHBACK/NIGHTMARE.)**_

"John!" Someone yells frantically as they shake me violently awake.

I jolt up, sweat beading down my face as my breath comes rough an jagged.

_Who was calling my name?!_

I feel someone's hand on my shoulder and I jump, smacking their hand away.

"Fuck! Ow!" The person says.

"Sher...Sherlock?" I ask hesitantly, recognising the voice.

"Yes, John, it's me." He says as he clicks on the light, blinding me briefly before my eyes adjust.

Sherlock sits on the edge of my bed, fully clothed with his coat and scarf still on. His hair is slightly damp and he smells of smoke, he must have been outside. He messages the hand I hit delicately.

"Are you alright, John?" He asks, seeming genuinely concerned.

I look away, hiding my face from his as I will myself not to cry.

"John..." He asks, quietly and I feel him getting closer to me on my bed. "You had a nightmare. A horrible nightmare. You were screaming so loud, I heard you at the end of the hall." He trails off and I feel tears pool in my eyes as my throat constricts painfully. "It was about your father. Wasn't it, John?"

Tears now run steadily down my face. I don't want Sherlock to see my upset, so all I do is nod.

"Would you... Like... To... Talk. About. It?" He asks, not really sure on what to do. Clearly this is not something he does all the time, if ever.

The odd, confused tone in his voice makes me smile and a small laugh escapes my lips. I feel my throat unconstrict itself and I turn to face Sherlock and shake my head. He looks down at his hands, not sure what to do.

"It was just a nightmare." I say with false reassurance, my voice still rough from sleep.

"And how often do you have these nightmares?" He asks, emotionless.

I sigh. "Almost every night. So I apologise if I wake you up sometimes." I respond feebly feeling very open and transparent at the moment and not liking it; I don't like feeling weak and helpless to other people.

"Don't worry about that as I rarely sleep."

I squint my eyes at him, trying to see if he is lying just to make me feel better. But I can't get a read on him as his face is a blank, emotionless mask.

"How often is rarely?" I question, doubting him.

"Couple times a week, sometimes less. It depends." He says, nonchalantly. I slump my shoulders deciding to let it go. I'm too mentally exhausted to argue with him about the importance of sleep. I'll save it for another time.

"Will you be able to go back to sleep?" Sherlock asks, noticing my change in demeanour.

I shake my head. Sleep at this point would be useless.

After a moment of silence, Sherlock flounces off my bed fluidly. I feel a pang of jealousy at his gracefulness. He makes me look like a juggling baboon... He turns around beaming at me excitedly. I cock an eyebrow at him wearily.

"Well! Since you're not going back to sleep and I'm not going to sleep tonight, let's go out!"

"Out? But Sherlock it's..." I glance at my watch "Three in the morning! We're not supposed to leave our dorms after ten!"

"Oh, piss on that! No one will catch us. I want to show you something!" He says, looking at me like an excited puppy. _Dear lord, what has gotten into him. He's hot, then he's cold. Yes, then he's no._

"Oh, come along John!" He pleads, enthusiastically.

"Alright. Alright. I'll go, just give me a moment to get dressed, will ya." I say, unable to help but give into his enthusiasm. It's quite endearing.

_Wait... What?_

"But of course." Sherlock says, grinning and throws himself onto his bed.

I sigh happily at his childlike tendencies and grab a pair of dark blue jeans and cream jumper out of the closet. I shrug out of my pyjamas, minding my still sore shoulder and torso as I pull on my clothes.

Without my notice, Sherlock lays on his bed staring at me as I undress. He looks over my bruised and battered body. He takes in the whip marks and angry purple, black bruises that litter my body. His face becomes contorted with anger and he has to physically hold himself back from outbursting. For the first time, Sherlock see the slight swelling around the back of my head. How could he have missed it?! What is wrong with Sherlock. He's missing _everything_ when it comes to me! First the generalised abuse, now the obvious concussion!..

Sherlock gasps causing me to turn around.

I blush to see him staring at me intently, but the blush quickly recedes as I see the anger practically steaming off of him. His hands shake slightly and he runs them furiously through his raven curls.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" I ask, slightly nervous.

Sherlock exhales and pinches his nose. "I am missing deductions with you. Obvious deductions at that." He says, through gritted teeth. "I didn't deduce that your father abuses you. I didn't deduce the... the concussion. Why am I missing these things when it comes to you!" He shouts, standing up and striding over to me.

I try not to flinch as he approaches and I swallow my fear as I squeak, "I don't know..."

Sherlock glares at me, like he's trying to see through me. It makes me feel exposed, like an experiment. Sherlock relaxes and takes a step back, his shoulders slumping slightly.

"I'm sorry." He whispers softly. I gawk at him, surprised as he continues. "I'm just not use to not being able to deduce everything about someone. It's... Frustrating." He finishes, grudgingly.

For reasons unknown to me, I start to laugh. Sherlock's head snaps up and he glares at me looking like an indignant child. This makes me laugh more. Sherlock begins to ease up and soon joins me in laughing. After a couple minutes pass, we both regain our composure wiping tears from our eyes and helping each other up as we had collapsed on the floor in our laughing fit.

We stand precariously close to each other, I feel an odd sensation pool in my stomach. My heart is beating funny and the air seems oddly thick.

For once, Sherlock's face isn't shrouded in a mask of cool, indifference. He seems to be going through some sort of mental battle with himself.

Sherlock catches me reading him and brings his mask back up. His features once again unreadable.

We both take a step back from each other at the same time and glance away.

_Awkwaaard_.

"You ready?" Sherlock asks, breaking the silence first.

"Right, yeah, definitely, let's go." I ramble.

"Have anymore words you'd like to use?" Sherlock laughs.

"Allons-y!" I spout and Sherlock collapses in laughter.

"Really, John?!"

"What? You asked if I had anymore words I'd like to use and that popped into my head." I laugh.

"John. That's French for 'let's go'. You already said that one." Sherlock chuckles, biting his lip adorably.

_No! Stop it, John! You don't say that about someone you hardly know._

"Oh, piss off!" I joke, pushing those thoughts aside. I collapse into a fit of giggles as Sherlock clutches his chest in mock hurt. "And how would you know that?"

"One. It's called google. Two. I'm fluent in French, because I am French."

"Oh. Well that explains it." I say, stupidly. "Let's go!" I say, smiling at him.

"Well, allons-y." Sherlock mumbles under his breathe and I elbow him playfully in the stomach.

"Jawn, that _really_ hurt! Why would you do that, Jawn?!" He whines, childishly.

"Sherlock Holmes, did you just whine at me?" I ask in mock disapproval whilst smirking at him. He winks at me and we laughs.

I try to quiet down my giggles, but I'm failing miserably. I only stop when Sherlock places a long slender finger on my lips, surprising me and quieting me down immediately. He removes his finger slowly and bends down precariously close to me to opens the door behind me. I hold my breathe, unable to breathe with Sherlock so close. The door clicks open and he steps around me, I exhale loudly and make my way out of the dorm, following Sherlock's silently billowing coat.

We tiptoe around the corridor, minding our surroundings to make sure no nosy teachers are snooping about. It is two week before school starts, so the place is relatively empty.

We make it outside in no time and I follow Sherlock. As we walk, I glance at my new roommate that I've only known for a day and I can't help but smile. Sure he has his problems, major problems, but he also has never had anyone constantly by his side to help him through it. He's a struggling drug addict with an amazingly intelligent and vast mind; the most unique mind I have ever seen. He just needs someone to help him through the rough times and share in with the good times. Maybe _I_ can be that person. The person he goes to when the urge to shoot up is too strong. The person he can talk to, hang out with and watch crap telly, and share in the adventures that our new school will bring us. Maybe I can be the person to keep him from being kicked out of this school, like he was his last one...

Perhaps I'm being a bit ambitious, but I feel like I can truly help him and be there for him. I can be his friend. Surly, Sherlock wouldn't mind that; a friend.

Everyone needs friends, even if it's just one.

To be continued...


End file.
